


Sugar and Spice

by dreams_for_spring



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkwardness, Crack, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Flirting, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Improper use of frosting, Jon Snow and the Starks Are Not Related, Jon likes to steal her biscuits, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sansa owns a bakery, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-08 06:14:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21471361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreams_for_spring/pseuds/dreams_for_spring
Summary: Even though he’s two years older than her, he has a boyish sort of charm about him, and that along with his inability to ever follow the rules has always annoyed Sansa.In fact, everything about Jon Snow annoys her.--Loosely inspired by the biscuit thief gif, aka this will be ridiculous fluffChapter 2 is my submission for Jonsa week 2019 day 6:modern-historical-remix
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 120
Kudos: 274
Collections: JonsaWeek2019





	1. One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of just wrote this for kicks on tumblr during a bout of insomnia, but there have been some calls for a chapter 2, so here we are!
> 
> Part 2 will be posted for Jonsa week "modern" prompt in a few days!

Sansa is in the back of her bakery, rolling out dough when she hears the ring of the front door opening. Normally, there would be two people manning the small bakery, but unfortunately her friend and co-owner Jeyne called in sick this morning, leaving Sansa responsible for finishing up the day’s orders as well as handling any customers at the storefront.

Though it is a weekday, Sugar and Spice was recently voted as one of Wintertown’s best bakeries and has been quite busy since then. It’s a point of pride for Sansa, because when she and Jeyne opened the bakery two years ago no one truly believed it would be a success. Owning and running a food establishment is a difficult career path for anyone, and especially so because Sansa and Jeyne are only 25 years old, and this is their first business.

True to her nature though, Sansa put her heart and soul into the little bakery, and together with Jeyne they had gained quite the following. Though Sugar and Spice fulfilled many types of orders, the main attraction of the storefront were the myriad of biscuits they offered; a rotating selection of over a dozen varieties, all freshly baked in house.

Sansa wipes her hands on her apron to free them of flour, before wiping errant strands of hair from her face. “I’ll be out front in a minute!” She calls out, hoping the customer would have the patience to wait for her.

When she walks out into the storefront though, she is dismayed to find her older brother Robb’s best friend standing there, staring determinedly at the display case. Jon Snow has been Robb’s best friend since they were all kids, and he’s never ceased to relentlessly tease her, although she takes personal pride in giving back just as much as he dishes out.

Even though he’s two years older than her, he has a boyish sort of charm about him, and that along with his inability to ever follow the rules has always annoyed her.

In fact, everything about Jon Snow annoys her.

She hates the way he dresses; in tight skinny jeans and an endless array of grey and black pullovers, as though colour doesn’t even exist. She hates the way his hair always sticks out in wild curls, and he never cuts it short. She hates those stupid round glasses he always wears that make him look like he reads a lot (even though she knows for a fact he doesn’t). But more than any of that, Sansa hates how Jon drops by her bakery at least once a week to pilfer biscuits from her display case.

And sure, the lopsided grin he gives her when she catches him can sometimes be cute – in a nerdy, infuriating way – but he’s just never really been her type. Besides, he’s eating all her merchandise, and he never pays a cent for it either. Sometimes she'll beg and plead with him to just go to another bakery, and he'll just give that same maddening grin - it's really more of a smirk actually - and tell her that no one else in the city makes biscuits this good. 

Today he’s wearing dark skinny jeans and a grey pullover, and he’s leaning over the display case perusing the day’s selection.

“Good morning Jon,” she says brightly, “Here to steal more biscuits again?”

He looks up from the display case, making eye contact with her, and she notices he’s not wearing his trademark glasses today. It shouldn’t make any difference at all, except for the first time she can see that his eyes aren’t actually black like she always imagined, but more of a dark grey. They're so dark that they could be slate or a light charcoal, and it makes his face look warmer, kinder somehow. Her world feels briefly off kilter, like as a child when she realized the toothfairy wasn't real, and was simply her mother depositing a silver stag under her pillow as she slept. Except this is different, because instead of taking colour and magic from the world, it seems to expand it. She swallows hard, and takes a minute to recover, furrowing her eyebrows slightly. His eye colour really shouldn’t matter at all to her, should it?

“What would be the fun if I just came in and bought them from you?” He replies, eyes narrowing and lips curling upwards once more.

“The fun would be you not eating me out of business.” She rolls her eyes and looks away from him and the way he seems to be looking far too intently at her.

_Is there something on my face?_ She wonders, checking her distorted reflection in the unpolished chrome of the espresso machine, and finding no obvious reason for his behaviour.

“Why no glasses today?” She asks nonchalantly, turning around just in time to catch him trying to reach around the display case. She rushes forward and swats his hand away, making him smile even wider. She bites her own lip to stop herself from smiling, because she _should_ be mad at him, he’s eating her out of house and home.

“Had to switch to contacts, glasses kept falling off during training.”

Jon joined the military about 6 months ago, and while he has proclaimed it to be a noble calling – and it is – she suspects it has rather a lot more to do with his mounting college debt, and the promise of it all being paid off in a few short years of service. And she has to admit, his new occupation has been changing the way he looks for the better. Those pullovers just keep getting tighter as his chest broadens and his arms grow, and it’s all rather – well, distracting. Her eyes flit over to his biceps, before she catches herself and looks away.

A curious thought runs by her mind of how he must look in his fatigues, before she has to remind herself that this is _Jon_, and he might just be the world’s most annoying man.

He settles in, leaning against the counter as he always does, while she prepares to pull him a shot of espresso – which by the way he never pays for either. It’s then that she realizes the machine is out of beans, and she has to go into the back to get more.

“I’ll be back in thirty seconds, and I swear to god Jon, if even one biscuit is missing from that case…” she exclaims loudly, as she begins to walk to the doorway leading to the back.

Jon quirks his head to the side, raising a single eyebrow. It’s disarming, and oddly charming, and she’s not sure he’s ever been so – playful?

“What’ll you do to me if one is missing?” he asks, and she could swear his voice is almost rougher, and endlessly intrigued. It’s jarring, nothing like the Jon she’s used to, and suddenly instead of thinking about how quickly she can push him from the shop, she’s wondering how she’s never noticed how handsome he really is.

“I’ll call the cops and have you arrested,” she deadpans, trying to cut the conversation short - and noticing a hint of playfulness in her own voice. _Where did that come from?_

“Sansa Stark, are you saying you want to see me in cuffs?”

She sputters, coughing, at the sudden realization that Jon Snow might actually be flirting with her. She feels her cheeks redden as she practically runs to the back to regain composure, because this is _Jon_, and she's known him for 15 years. He's never been more than Robb's best friend, on the periphery of her view, never present and never interacting with her in the absence of Robb. Except he's been coming to her bakery alone to torture her for almost 6 months now.

She chews at her lip, wondering if he is here for something more than biscuits. That thought only fuels the blush, and it takes her a minute to recover, before she grabs a bag of coffee beans and heads back out to the front.

She tries not to roll her eyes at the scene in front of her, at Jon with half a snickerdoodle in his hand, and the look of a guilty dog – who’s only really guilty that he got caught. He takes another bite as if to challenge her, and licks the crumbs from his lips, still looking straight at her. She finds herself wondering whether the biscuit has left his lips tasting of cinnamon sugar, before she tries to shake the thought from her head.

He deposits the rest of her biscuit in his mouth, chewing slowly, meticulously, maintaining eye contact as he does. When he is finished, he walks around the counter towards her, and she can feel her heart beating so fast she feels faint.

_This is just Jon_, she reminds herself once more. The boy who used to pull on her pigtails, the boy who used to scoff at her for reading Pride and Prejudice and the Great Gatsby, the boy who apparently had never heard of a comb… She looks up to see him inches away from her face. The **man** who apparently has never heard of a comb, she corrects internally, gazing at the tangled mess of dark brown curls. For some reason, her fingers itch to run through them, to tame them.

A lump forms in her throat as she looks from his hair to his face, and she realizes she’s never been this close to him before. They’re close enough that he could reach one hand around her head and bring her in for a kiss, and then she’d know if he tastes of cinnamon sugar, like she suspects.

She swallows hard at the thought, staring at his lips, wondering if they’re as soft as they look, before she catches herself and tries to think of something - anything - else. Her mind betrays her and instead her gaze flits back up to his eyes, which are staring intently at her. They really are grey as slate, like the rocks they used to use for skipping stones during the long summers of their youth.

His face breaks into a smile once more, his hand reaches up to her cheek, and for a second she thinks that yes, he is about to kiss her. She finds the thought oddly enticing. This Jon here today is so utterly different from the Jon she knows. He is charming - perhaps even flirting with her - and the closer he gets the more sure she is that somehow he’s definitely become more handsome, more kind, more open.

His thumb traces down her cheek lightly, making Sansa shiver, and she finds herself leaning into his touch. But just as quickly, he retracts his hand from her.

She releases a breath that she didn’t even know she was holding, and when he turns his thumb towards her, she sees it covered in a dusting of flour from her cheek. Her heart sinks and she blushes with embarrassment as he begins to pull away, and it’s leaving her feeling like maybe she did want him to kiss her, crazy as it seems.

“See you tomorrow, Sansa,” he murmurs softly, before grabbing another cookie from the display and walking back out of the store, leaving her standing there, world completely and irreversibly off kilter.

\---------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if you'd prefer part 2 to be M or E, I'm on the fence for how I want this to play out =)


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so the main event is no longer occurring in this chapter. I got a little carried away with flirting and banter, and with fleshing out their backstories. Hopefully it's still enjoyable, and yes the final chapter will be coming up in the next 24 hours!!

That night, Sansa doesn’t finish up at the bakery until almost 10pm. When she finally gets to head home to her one-bedroom apartment, she is so tired she can barely manage to pour herself a glass of wine and crawl into the soft satin sheets of her bed.

But when she tries to fall asleep, she finds all she can do is replay the events of the day, and the curious behaviour of Jon Snow. The most disturbing – and most prevalent – image in her mind is the smirk that he gave her when he asked if she wanted to see him in cuffs. And the answer to that question is definitely a resounding no, except – no she needs to stop thinking about him.

Sansa rolls over onto her side, hoping the new position will expel Jon from her brain. It has the opposite effect, and now all she can picture is Jon lying in the bed beside her, and how it would feel to have his breath ghost over her ear, her cheek, her lips. She groans in exasperation, and throws her pillow over her face, letting out a quiet scream of frustration. She needs to sleep, and she needs to not think about _him_. It’s bad enough he bothers her at work, now he’s bothering her at home too.

As she lies there and thinks more about it though, the more convinced she is that he was definitely flirting with her, which is weird because he’s never done that before. For the better part of her life all Jon has done is tease her relentlessly, which makes sense because she’s just Robb’s little sister after all.

This time though, she pauses and doesn’t gloss over that fact. Yes, she is Robb’s little sister, but hasn’t Jon been the most supportive person in her starting the bakery, save for Jeyne? Hadn’t he spent several long days helping to move the display cases and shelves into place in the front, and all the ovens and fridges in the back? Not even Robb had offered to help with that.

She then remembers how afterwards she had teased him, saying that she was surprised his jeans hadn’t ripped since they were so tight. He had given her a withering look, and she had felt a little guilty at the time. Now that she has time to think about it she feels even worse, because he had only been trying to help her, and instead of saying thank you, she’d only teased him even more. Sansa rolls over onto her back, staring at the ceiling once more, trying desperately to get at least a couple hours of sleep before she’ll have to wake up and get back to the bakery again.

The alarm clock numbers wink at her as the minutes drag by. When she does finally fall asleep, she dreams of grey slate skipping stones, and how they had scattered the pale moonlight reflecting off the still lake of her family’s cottage, and Jon standing there telling her she can do anything she dreams of.

\--

Sansa wakes the next day unrested and confused, and terribly on edge. She tries to ignore the empty, hungry feeling in her gut, tres to ignore just how long it’s been since _anyone _has touched her, save for Jon brushing flour from her cheek yesterday.

And just the thought of that contact is enough to make her stomach clench, until she reminds herself that it’s just _Jon_. She starts to make herself her morning coffee, her mind drifting to Jon and his stupid skinny jeans, and those tight sweaters that never used to be so tight. Does he not have enough money to buy new clothes? Doesn’t the military pay pretty well? Her mind wanders to a picture of him in fatigues, those dark grey eyes staring back at her, one eyebrow raised to taunt her. In her mind, his hair is wild and unruly, and she wonders how it would feel to run her fingers through the curls to tame them. The thought is arresting, and her body tightens automatically, visions of his hands cupping her face or curling around her waist run through her head.

_Oh gods, _she realizes as her cheeks flush_, I think I’m attracted to Jon Snow._

The thought is so disturbing that she accidentally spills the bag of coffee beans all over the floor and spends the next twenty minutes cleaning them all up. As she’s cleaning, she prays to the old gods and new that Jon will not come to the bakery today because she is far too tired, and far too wound up to deal with him.

\--

Sansa ends up being late to show up to the bakery, causing Jeyne to give her a curious look. In all the two years they’ve owned it, Sansa has never been late. In fact, she’s never been late to anything a day in her life.

“Minor coffee bean-related emergency,” she breathes as she passes Jeyne to get to the back and start baking the day’s biscuits. Today will be a day that she hides in the back, she decides, especially if Jon comes by.

Jeyne gives her a curious, intrigued sort of smile, before shaking her head slightly, sending her shiny, brown waves to cascade down her shoulders. It’s really unfair that Jeyne should look so good at 6:30am, while Sansa is sure that this morning she must look like a hag; tired, makeup-less, and wearing yoga pants and a t-shirt.

\--

Sansa is in the back rolling out shortbread, and preparing a large bowl of frosting for them. Most people pair royal icing with shortbread, but she prefers to make a thick butter frosting. While royal icing may look better, it doesn’t taste better – and isn’t that kind of the point?

She hears the sounds of Jeyne talking to a man out front and tries to stop herself from rolling her eyes. Jeyne is a lovely woman, but she has been known to be a bit boy-crazed. She then hears giggles floating through the door from the front, and this time she does roll her eyes before turning her attention back to the dough laid out in front of her.

Suddenly, she hears Jeyne call out through the door. “Guess who’s hear to see you Sans!”

Sansa feels it before she sees him – she has a sixth sense for Jon Snow and the way he always walks into any room she’s in. It’s as though he _wants_ to distract her, and it’s endlessly frustrating. He walks through the door from the front, and Sansa is quick to notice an already-frosted piece of shortbread in his hand. It’s one of the ones she’s cut and frosted to look like a winter rose. She groans audibly, wondering if he knows how much work it is to frost the damn things.

He’s wearing a thick black pullover to fight off the winter chill, and dark blue skinny jeans – neither of which do anything to hide his form. She forces herself to look away, partly because she’s now thinking that _yes, _he really does look good these days, and partly because his gaze is now following hers and he can tell she’s looking at him.

She focuses on the shortbread in his hand, leering at it, lest she leer again at him. “Did you pay for that?” she asks, noting a sharpness to her tone that almost sounds nervous.

“Jeyne said to help myself, that you have plenty of biscuits to spare.” As he finishes, he cocks his head to the side and smirks at her, and she feels her cheeks redden.

“You do understand that normally people pay money in exchange for goods and services, right Jon?”

He takes a bite of the cookie, chewing thoughtfully before letting his tongue peek out from his mouth to lick frosting from his lips. It’s clear now that yes, he is doing this on purpose, and she’s not sure if she’s relieved or disturbed by this revelation. She follows the path of his tongue with her eyes all the same and catches herself wondering what else that tongue can do.

“And you do remember that I did the majority of the heavy lifting in setting up this store, right?” he inquires coyly, gesturing to the appliances.

She chews at her lip, guilt creeping back in. “I thought you did that as a favour for the Stark family.”

He leans in over the table so that he’s less than a foot way, and he’s so close she can smell him; like fresh leather and vanilla sugar. She’s never kissed a man with a beard before, they’re not really her type – today though, the thought of it intrigues her.

“I did it as a favour for you, Sans.” He leans over her, so close his arm brushes against hers, and dips a finger into the bowl of frosting. He brings it to his mouth and licks the frosting off, and she knows she should be thinking about how she now has to throw the frosting out and start from scratch, but instead all she can focus on is his tongue, and the way it curls around his finger, catching every drop of it.

“And if I recall, you never did pay me back for it,” he murmurs, so close now she imagines she can feel his heat.

She swallows hard, and looks down to the table, trying to focus on the work at hand. “Whatever happened to doing good deeds just to be a good person?” She mumbles out, still refusing eye contact.

“That presupposes I’m a good person, and haven’t you said so many times how terrible I am?”

She looks up at that, feeling a pang of guilt run through her once more. Jon Snow is not really a terrible person – maybe terribly annoying – but not terrible. No, he’s actually a good man, hasn’t Robb always said that?

“Don’t you want to prove me wrong?” She counters, as she tries to ignore him, and presses shapes into the rolled-out dough.

“Mmmm,” he hums thoughtfully, walking around the table until he can’t be more than six inches away. “Maybe I want to prove you right?”

She swallows hard as her eyes dart quickly to his lips, before she catches herself, and looks back to the cut-out dough. “I already know I’m right,” she retorts, pushing past him to grab a baking tray, trying to put more distance between them. She’s not sure if it’s from lack of sleep, but for some reason today she’s finding it very hard to think when she’s this close to him. “I sat down and did the math last night, and you’ve eaten over $500 of merchandise since Jeyne and I opened the bakery.”

“Small price to pay for free labour, wouldn’t you say?”

“It was one time, Jon!” She cries out in exasperation, loading the raw biscuits onto the tray.

He cocks an eyebrow up again. “Well, any time you need someone to do some heavy lifting again, feel free to give me a call. Or any kind of lifting really.” He pauses, and tilts his head just slightly, and it feels almost as though he’s checking her out, which is ridiculous because she’s just wearing yoga pants and she’s covered in flour and sugar. “Least I could do, seeing as I seem to be the one who owes you, Sans.”

She flushes crimson at the thought of what other kinds of lifting he could possibly do and tries to focus on arranging the biscuits evenly on the tray. She tries to ignore how Jon is too close, how he smells so good – like fresh leather gloves with a mink fur lining, purchased and worn for the first snow of the year.

_This is Jon_, she says the mantra in her mind once more, and can’t remember why that was supposed to be so dissuading.

“I’m serious though Sans, say the word and I’ll write you a cheque right now. It’s not like how it was before. I know what I’m doing now, with my life, with my career.” He chews at his lower lip. “I’m not going to be a fuck-up like my dad.”

She clenches her teeth at the idea that he is even _thinking_ of comparing himself to his father. Jon is nothing like his father, not now and not ever. Some part of her wants to reach out and hold him and tell him that. Sansa shakes her head from side to side. “No – No, it’s okay. Maybe…maybe I’ll just let you know if any more work is needed around here someday?”

He cocks that damn eyebrow again and writes his number on a slip of paper that seems to have magically appeared from his back pocket. He hands it to her, fingers brushing along the inside of her palm. “Or around your house? I’m pretty handy too.”

She nods dumbly, unsure how exactly she has gotten to this moment where she is giving Jon Snow her number, where his fingers have brushed her palm and left a trail of fire in their wake. She tries to get distance from him, walking the biscuit trays to the oven, putting them in and setting a timer.

When she gets back though and prepares to reroll the remaining dough, she watches him dip his finger in the frosting once more and lick it all up. It sends a shiver down her body, ending in her curling her toes as she watches that tongue at work. It’s honestly obscene, and yet she’s captivated all the same.

When he finishes, she looks up to see his eyes black as coal, intent on her. “I can’t help it,” he drawls out, “I just want to eat everything of yours.”

“I’m going to have to throw all the frosting out now, I can’t sell it after you’ve – anymore,” she manages to choke out, which despite it’s incoherence is actually an accomplishment, because all her muscles feel weak, and her brain feels sluggish and foggy.

“More for me.”

She wonders what he tastes like now, if his tongue is sweet from the icing, with just a hint of vanilla? She wonders if his lips are sticky with sugar, if his close-cropped beard would brush against her skin, and if it did would it scratch or soothe? She swallows visibly, and knows he’s seen it too, because he’s licked his lips now.

_Now_, she thinks_, now he is definitely going to kiss me_.

She finds the idea no longer disturbs her, instead leaves her skin buzzing – desperate for contact – because it’s been over 6 months since she’s last dated a man, and many more since one had pleased her in any way. Had Harry ever made her feel like this? Like her blood is simultaneously boiling and freezing in her veins, clotting and holding still, before rushing through her body in a frenzy? No, Harry never made her feel like this.

_Hungry_, she thinks. She feels hungry. For touch, for taste, for any and every sensation.

She meets Jon’s careful gaze and finds his eyes hungry too. She lets one hand move tentatively to his cheek, and he leans into it. His beard scratches her palm lightly, and she decides it soothes her, grounds her, makes her blood slow down just a bit.

His own hands snake around her waist bringing her closer, until she is only inches from his body. Her mind lets out one final call to reason; _This is Jon_, and instead it only makes her smile because for whatever Jon isn’t, he _is _a good man.

He’s looking at her with those dark eyes of his – wide and searching for approval. It makes her smile, because she is pretty sure no man has ever looked at her like this, has ever _waited_ for permission. Her other hand moves up from the table behind her to rest on the nape of his neck. She feels his heartbeat, calm and constant, reassuring.

Sansa wonders if Jon would stand here like this all day, waiting for her. He probably would. He returns her smile with that lopsided grin of his – the one she so rarely sees because so often he smirks instead. It emboldens her, and she leans forward even further, closing the distance between them.

When her lips first contact his, he returns the kiss with the same tentativeness, soft and feather-light. It’s only as she begins to pull away that one of his hands lifts from her hip to her head and pulls her back to him, their lips crashing back into each other.

This time when they kiss it’s as though he is trying to possess her, to commit her to memory. And she can’t say why exactly it feels so good to be kissing Jon – to have his beard lightly scratching against her cheeks and chin, to taste him and know that yes, he tastes of frosting and butter and everything good that this world has to offer – but it feels better than any kiss she’s ever had.

Jon’s tongue dips into her mouth, setting an insistent pace. She lets her own dance with his, feeling as though every nerve ending in her body is singing, raw and open to every touch. As though he knows just how she’s feeling, his hands begin to wander, tracing up and down her curves, from her neck to hips. He seems to be taking note of how she reacts when he touches her – a quiet moan when his fingers dance along her neck, grasping at his hair when he cups her ass, brings her ever closer to him.

She can feel him smirking against her lips, and pulls away from his lips finally, desperate for breath, and to wipe that smirk off his face.

“Stop laughing,” she breathes, trying to stop her body from panting, her chest from heaving.

“I’m not laughing,” he replies, intently watching the way her body has betrayed her, responded to him.

“Yes, you are. You’re smirking at me, like you always do. Like you know something that I don’t, like you’re smarter than me.” She pulls back from him as far as she can, until she’s pushed back against the table, boxed in by arms that have moved from her body to the cold steel table.

He meets her gaze and the smirk is gone, replaced with that hunger she saw earlier. “I was just thinking that now that I’ve tasted you, I can’t ever go back.” He bites his lower lip, eyes focused on her own, on her neck, her chest, before they dart over to the frosting, then back to her. “I was thinking about what I want to do with you, if you’ll let me.”

Sansa was raised to be polite and courteous. She went to a finishing school which extolled the virtues of purity and chastity – though she broke those vows a long time ago – and she’s never quite gotten over that schooling. Now though, she is inches from a man who looks ready to devour her, a man that she was sure she hated two days ago, and the sound of her blood rushing in her ears is so loud she can barely hear him speak. Her body is tingling from her head to her toes at the idea of what _exactly_ Jon Snow wants to do with _her_, and why it seems to involve that bowl of frosting less than a foot away.

And then she has one if those curious, terrible thoughts usually reserved for 2am after a night at a bar, the one that goes a little like _what’s the worst that could happen?_ She embraces the thought, reaches out to cup his cheeks with both hands, and pulls him to her. Just as before, his lips push hard against hers, leaving them swollen.

She should push him away, because it is barely past noon and she’s at work and Jeyne is less than 20 feet away. Instead, she lets out a soft moan as his hands move back to the cheeks of her ass, pulling her so close she can feel him hard against her. And isn’t that kind of his fault for wearing those skinny jeans that leave nothing to the imagination?

He doesn’t give her the time to dwell on that thought, and instead lifts her up by her hips until she’s sitting on the table, and he is standing there between her legs, grinding into her. The friction feels so good against her, giving her just the smallest hint of relief. It’s enough, until she realizes it won’t be enough, and then it’s just torture – touching the tip of a livewire, pouring water on a greasefire. She grinds back against him, desperate to make the pulsing under her skin stop.

His hands are everywhere at once, caressing her neck, ghosting over her breasts, making her arch against him, and back to her ass, setting a pace against him that seems to be giving him enough pleasure that he is groaning. She whines against him because it’s still not enough for her, and he smirks once more. Sansa tugs at those curls of his, pulling him away from her lips.

“It’s not fair,” she breathes out, trying to stifle a moan as he pulls away from her hands and places a kiss to the pulse point of her neck. His tongue traces a long, slow path up to her ear, sending jolts of electricity down her body, pooling like a ball of lightning down low within her, leaving her throbbing.

“What’s not fair,” he whispers, his breath hot against her ear. She finds she’s losing her trail of thought.

“It’s not enough,” she whimpers, as he begins to slowly alternate between kisses and bites on her neck.

“Mmmm,” he hums against her neck, the vibration making her ache, “What would make it enough?”

A hundred visions pass by her mind, of all the things she wants – needs –

just as the alarm on the oven goes off and pulls them both away from each other.

Jon groans loudly, and she watches him retract from her, a pained expression on his face.

Sansa jumps off the table as quick as she can, and runs to the oven, pulling the shortbread from within before it burns. She turns back to see Jon’s hair dishevelled, lips bright red and swollen, and she knows Jeyne will have no trouble guessing what has happened between them. The thought makes her blush, that they have gotten so carried away here at work.

“What time are you done tonight?” he growls out, clearly frustrated, closing the distance between them as she places the trays on the counter, and heads back to the dough.

“Probably not til 9 or 10.”

He’s so close again that she can smell him – is that cologne or aftershave or just _Jon_? She can feel him behind her, his breath ghosting over her neck, tickling against her skin. His hands reach out to grasp the table in front of her, and he leans in further. Sansa can feel his body against hers now, hard planes of muscle under his soft sweater, the scrape of denim against her ass.

She arches back into his touch, letting her head fall back onto his shoulder, and he begins to place soft open-mouthed kisses up her neck. And the feeling of Jon here, making her feel _this_ good is exciting, yet oddly comforting. It’s like waking up and realizing that it’s actually Christmas morning, and downstairs are presents and stockings full of chocolate and lemoncakes.

Sansa lets out a quiet, involuntary moan as Jon nips lightly at her neck. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,” he murmurs softly, continuing his trail of kisses.

She supposes it’s meant to be a compliment of sorts, but instead it only reminds her how she’s acted towards him all these years. “I’m sorry I was always so terrible to you.”

“You weren’t terrible, and I gave as good as I got.” He spins her around so that she’s facing him, _and gods those eyes really are mesmerizing, aren’t they?_

He places a soft kiss to her forehead, in sharp contrast to what they’ve been doing so far, and she lets her arms snake round his neck, pulling him in closer.

“Message me when you’re done here, Sans,” he says softly, before he turns around and starts to walk away. He turns back at the door to look at her and pauses to look her up and down. She feels her cheeks redden under his appraising stare, before he smiles, shakes his head incredulously, and turns back around and heads out the door.

Sansa slumps against the table, wondering how exactly she’s going to get through the rest of work now that she is wound up tighter than she ever has been in her life, now that she knows what she’s been missing, and now that she knows she’s going to see him again tonight.

\---------


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, the very nsfw conclusion to this cracky fluff.
> 
> I repeat, very NSFW

Sansa looks down at her phone, then at the slip of paper with Jon’s number on it. He had told her to let him know when she was done closing up the bakery, but now that the moment has come to message him, she finds herself unsure, almost hesitant to do so.

Maybe it’s because she’s never messaged Jon before? Or maybe it’s because up until yesterday, they’d really never done more than bicker? And well… now they’d done a whole lot more than that, and she has a nagging feeling that if she messages him, they’ll be doing even more than that tonight.

It’s not that she’s unsure or afraid of that possibility – it’s more of a hungry, nervous sort of anticipation deep in her bones, leaving her feeling strung out like she’s drunk too much coffee. She stands there staring at the slip of paper, thinking about how it would feel to let her hands skate over the planes of his chest and stomach, how he got that desperate, hungry look in his eyes when she had whined and ground herself against him, how warm and hard he had felt against her, and how much better that would feel if clothing weren’t in the way.

She swallows hard and looks down at the blinking cursor.

**Sansa** – |

And nothing comes out.

But he’s left her no option, he hadn’t asked her for her own number. He’s left the ball in her court, made it her decision. And it should make her feel good that he has been considerate in this way, but instead it only makes her mad because only Jon could be annoying in his attempts to be courteous.

She lets her teeth graze over her lower lip, trying to hold back a smile as she finally decides on what she will type.

**Sansa** – Hey, it’s Sansa. Closing up the bakery now, you’ll be happy to know I saved the rest of the frosting for you.

He replies in an instant, causing her smile to break free.

**Jon** – Be there in 15

**Jon** – Please don’t be teasing about the frosting

**Jon** – A man can only take so much

Precisely 12 minutes later, she hears a knock on the front door of the bakery. She walks out to the front, and sure enough it is Jon standing outside, panting, wearing the same clothes as earlier today. This time it’s her turn to smirk, because it’s finally clear just how badly he seems to want her. Bad enough that he has apparently run from his apartment ten blocks away, bad enough that his hair is dishevelled, and his chest is heaving from the effort. He looks even more handsome like this, flustered and wound up.

She prepares a witty remark to throw at him as she unlocks the door and opens it. Instead, he surprises her by running to her, his arms pulling her roughly into him, his lips crashing into hers. He holds her tight to him, kissing her so hard she knows her lips will be bruised tomorrow. The way he's kissing her is like skipping straight to that pleasant buzz after two glasses of champagne, like her body is humming to an unknown tune. She leans into the kiss, just as he spins them around and pushes her against the glass door.

The new position is better than standing, allowing him to push against her with more force, something she’s finding she likes. His hands busy themselves pulling her hair from the sloppy bun it’s in, while her own find a way around his middle, landing on the square of his back. She feels the pull of his muscles working underneath the sweater as he frees her hair, letting it fall around her face and down her shoulders.

He grabs the long auburn waves in his hands and pulls her face to his, so close their foreheads touch. His eyes close as they connect, and she feels something spark between them – an intimacy, a quiet, wordless understanding. Whatever this is, it won't be just once.

“So good,” he whispers, as he moves to place kisses along her jaw, and up her neck. He pauses at her hair bunched in his hand, breathing her in. “Gods Sans, you always smell like roses and sugar,” he groans, pressing his body against her. She wants to tell him it’s just her shampoo and the smell of the bakery lingering in her hair, but his mouth covers hers again before she can say anything.

This time when he kisses her, it’s slow and almost reverential. He takes his time, lightly biting her lower lip, letting his tongue memorize her own. He ignores her whining pleas, and apparently his own body, because she can feel him hard against her already.

One of his hands busies itself trying to lock the front door, while the other moves to cup her breast through her shirt. She hears herself moan, and blushes at the idea that she is making out with _Jon_ in front of a glass door while he tries to get to second base. It’s like he has reduced her to a teenager, desperation winning over any sense.

When the door is finally locked, she breaks away from him. “Let’s go in the back,” she breathes, desperate to regain composure.

Instead, he smirks and tilts his head just slightly. “What’s in the back, Sans?”

She rolls her eyes and tries to pull away from him. In an instant, he pulls her back to him, hoisting her over his shoulder.

“Jon, put me down!” she cries out, as he walks her into the back, away from prying eyes.

He carries her past the door to the kitchen, and deposits her on a table, pressing himself between her legs once more. “Now, where were we?” He growls out, hands pressing into her thighs, so close to where she needs them to be. She can feel her own body responding to him, heat pooling within her and threatening to bubble over.

“I believe we are just about where we were a few hours ago, except there was a bowl of frosting right there…” she points beside her, where the table is now clean, steel shining her reflection back at her. She smiles back at her reflection; fairly certain she hasn’t looked this wild or happy in years – or maybe ever.

“I did say not to tease me about that didn’t I?”

She lets out a quiet snort of amused curiousity, and points to a cupboard. “It’s in there, if you really want it.”

He pulls away from her and stalks to the cupboard, grabbing the tub and putting it on the table beside her. She looks at it incredulously – just as he pops the lid off and dips a finger in once more, emulating his behaviour from earlier in the day. He brings the finger to his mouth, licking it clean with a tongue that seems to be just a little too practiced, just a little too quick.

Jon has never been much for dating, and Sansa can count on one hand all the girlfriends he’s had since she’s known him; but now that she thinks about it, she can recall a comment that one of his old girlfriends had made one Thanksgiving dinner. It had been something that had seemed innocuous except for the way she’d snickered after, and the way the tips of his ears had reddened. Something about licking his plate clean and go back in for seconds?

She gulps hard at the thought – the implication – and tries to push the image of Jon falling to his knees in front of her out of her head. It proves impossible, as he dips his finger into the frosting once more.

This time though, he proffers the finger to her, watching her intently. “Want a taste?”

Most of her mind decries the idea – and yet… it really does seem rather enticing. Her tongue dances out and along his finger, letting the sugar and butter melt and meld together, before taking the finger gently in her mouth. She has a wicked thought, deciding to give as good as she has gotten, and begins to slowly suck it clean. Even pressure, soft, flat strokes of her tongue. She hears him groan loudly, and when she’s finished, she looks up to see his eyes dark, pupils so wide she can no longer see his irises. She’s never seen him like this, looking as though he would eat her whole.

Jon dives back in, kissing her hard, his mouth and tongue tasting of sugar and vanilla. She tugs at the hem of his shirt and he happily obliges, pulling it off and revealing his bare chest to her. Her hands run across his skin, soft as silk, a sharp contrast to the hard muscle underneath. Her toes curl at the realization that not only does she find Jon attractive, but to her now, he might be the most attractive man she’s ever seen. 

She looks up to see his hands tugging at her own shirt. She lifts it over her head and finds a similarly appraising smile plastered on his face. He dips his head down between her breasts, kissing her breastbone, before kissing up her chest to her collarbone. He nibbles lightly at the skin above the bone where it is most sensitive, causing her to moan out and push against him. Deft fingers slip underneath her bra straps, letting them fall from her shoulder. Then he undoes the clasp of her bra, and it falls to the ground.

She looks down at his head, at the wild mop of curls cradled between her breasts, kissing every square inch of skin. His lips encircle each nipple in turn, sucking and licking and biting, causing her to arch into him, her fingers knotted tightly into his hair as he sends jolts of pleasure through her body.

He pulls away and gives her a wicked smile. “I have an idea…”

Before she can say anything, he has deposited a dollop of frosting on the tips of each of her breasts and is working his way to licking every bit off. When he’s finished, they’re both panting hard, and everything in the room has dissolved around them until its just his body and her own, eyes locked on each other.

His hands pull her body closer to him, hardness grinding against her through their pants, denim scraping deliciously against her center. She moves to undo his belt and lets his jeans drop. They pause for a minute, hanging low on the v of his hips, before falling down and leaving him standing there in only his navy blue boxer briefs. She tries not to stare at the bulge there, tries not to clench her thighs together for relief, but the temptation is too much, and they’re _so close_.

He hooks his fingers around the waistband of her pants, and peels them down along with her thong, revealing a small triangle of auburn curls. “Better than I ever imagined,” he whispers softly, eyes so intent on her that she blushes with heat despite the arresting cold of the table below her.

“Do you even know how beautiful you are, Sansa?” He asks, as his fingers trace a dangerous pattern up from her knee to her thigh, a winding path working its way ever closer to her mound. It’s all too much, and not enough, and she keens against him, desperate for relief. His fingers lower into her curls, teasing along the slit between her folds.

Her body pushes up against him, breath coming fast and shallow, starved for oxygen and his touch. “Gods, you’re so wet,” he groans, and she bites her lips at his words, trying to maintain some level of composure. All of that fails when his finger enters her, curling upwards to hit _that spot_ until she cries out in pleasure, a thousand tiny pinpricks firing under her skin to her brain.

Sansa pulls his face towards hers, kissing him in rhythm with his finger, just as his thumb moves its way to her clit. He touches over it lightly at first, before settling into a circular pattern that has her mewling into his mouth, pushing against his hand as he sets a fast pace, touch still feather-light.

It’s almost embarrassing how quickly she is going to peak, how warm she feels under the gaze of his near-black eyes. His mouth is partially open from panting, and she can tell he needs this as much as her. The idea that they’re together, that he cares about her pleasure relaxes the tension from her body, helping her to her peak.

“Jon,” she cries out, “I’m going to…”

He smiles and kisses her again, adding another finger inside of her. She can feel her body clenching around his fingers, can feel him pressing kisses to her neck, to her breasts, to her cheeks. Tingles begin in her toes and her fingers, and a shiver of electricity winds it way down her spine as she falls over the edge into her peak, sparks exploding behind her closed eyes. She collapses, weightless in his arms, as his hands fall to her hips to hold her up.

When she comes down, she realizes her hands are clenched tightly in his hair. It must be hurting him, but he doesn’t say a word, and just presses soft kisses to her cheeks. She laughs breathlessly, limbs slow and loose like molasses after a winter thaw, and he returns her laugh with a lopsided grin.

“Was that good?” he asks, but the grin on his face tells her he knows the answer, he just wants to hear her confirm it.

“Yes,” she whispers, “but not quite enough,” because even though she’s found her pleasure, she can see the strain on his face, the tension in his hands as he holds her, tries desperately to hold himself back.

He tilts his head, narrows his eyes slightly. “What would make it enough?” he murmurs, echoing his words from earlier in the day, as his hands tighten their grip on her hips, fingers indenting the soft skin.

“You.”

It’s a simple affirmation, but it seems to be all Jon needs as he pulls Sansa forward on the table. His face falls to the crook of her neck, skin warm like they’ve been under summer sun. The feeling of him so close to her, the friction of it all is enough that it has her moaning against him once more. Her hands fall to the waistband of his boxers, tugging them down, releasing his cock.

“Are you sure?” He manages to grind out, holding on to the last bit of his self restraint.

“Yes,” she breathes, letting her hand fall to stroke his length gently, causing him to groan in pleasure. “Do you have a –“

He pulls himself away from her, ridding himself of his boxer briefs, and reaches into his jeans, sheepishly producing a condom. Sansa can’t help but laugh because the expression on his face is the same one he gets when she catches him stealing biscuits.

He looks ready to speak, to defend himself, but instead she pulls him back to her, kissing him hard. He smiles through the kiss and sheathes himself in the condom. Her hips tilt unconsciously towards him, as she moves one hand to grip his back and pull him towards her.

She can feel his cock brush against her folds, teasing her, making her ache in anticipation. “Please,” she whines, pushing her hips harder into his, closing the distance.

He positions himself at her entrance, thrusting in slowly, letting her adjust to the sweet pull of her muscles relaxing around him to accommodate his length. He moves slow and steady, shallow thrusts that get just a little deeper each time, until he fills her to the hilt, makes her cry out as he fills her completely.

It’s as though she can feel everything at once; his hands gripping her hips so hard she’ll bruise, his mouth kissing and biting at her neck, the feel of the cool table underneath her, his lean body between her legs as she curls them around his hips for traction, bringing him ever closer. She loses track of where she ends and he begins, until it’s all just sweat and slick, and the sound of them both lost in pleasure.

“Gods, you’re so wet, so good,” he groans out, and she tell he’s close now, straining to maintain the fast pace he’s set.

One of his hands releases from her hips and moves her own hand to her clit, guiding her to pleasure herself. She begins slowly, building pressure as he continues to thrust into her, constant and firm. His free hand pulls her head to his own, kissing her in pace with his thrusts.

When she peaks, she can feel him come with her, pulsing inside her.

He places a gentle kiss to her lips and pulls away to dispose of the condom. It’s only when he’s moved away a couple feet that she’s able to recompose herself and realize what they’ve just done, and where. She feels just a hint of guilt, and her cheeks redden automatically.

He turns back to her with a look of concern on his face. “Everything okay? Gods, please tell me that was okay.”

The redness spreads across her face and down her neck, as she thinks that yes, that was probably the best sex of her life – not that she’ll _ever _give him the satisfaction of telling him that – but in probably the worst location possible. She bites at her lip. “Yeah, just – I think I’m going to have to clean again.”

He laughs, and walks back to gather her up in his arms, kissing her lightly on the top of her head. "Maybe I can help with that," he grins, "to start paying off my debt." 

\--------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I think I have that out of my system, back to my WIPs 😅


End file.
